Call boy
by PerryC
Summary: Things get nasty when Kurt discovers Blaine's secret profession as an elite, high class escort, and takes a trip to Cambridge to hire the clueless call boy for the night.
1. Chapter 1

When people hear the word 'prostitute' they picture scantily-clad women with wild hair and pupils dilated from drug use. They have tight lines around their eyes where the skin has toughened from years of hardship and rubbing off make-up. Their stockings have small tears and their teeth are tobacco-stained. They stand on the corner of George Street, or pace the ten meters between Calendar Girls and Madison's cocktail bar, flashing drivers a winning smile as they pivot in their tiny red heels.

When people hear the word 'escort', they think of a slightly better-kept woman. Her make-up is tidier, her teeth whiter, her eyes more intelligent. These are prostitutes who have a life outside work, who want to keep their reputations. They're listed in online directories with their faces blurred out. Many of these women don't have to do the work they do – they could easily get jobs as secretaries or shop assistants. Some of them even have degrees. But they sign up to agencies for one reason – the money.

I work for an upper-class, elite agency and get paid upwards of $200 an hour, although I don't quite fit the stereotypes. I'm not a woman, and nor am I in it for the money – not entirely, anyway. I'm a bit of thrill seeker, a bit of an actor, and I love attention. I also needed money. So this job seemed perfect for me.

Let me explain. I come from a very well-off family and attended a top all-boys school back in Ohio. I was the lead singer in the boy's show choir, captain of the fencing team, had among the top grades in my year. I moved schools in my final year to be closer to my boyfriend, and my new show choir won the regional championships. I was set to graduate with perfect grades and move on to live a prestigious life at Harvard University. I had a beautiful, loving boyfriend, with the most amazing singing voice, and we were both determined to keep up our relationship despite the long-distance. Everything seemed perfect.

Then I graduated. I moved in to the perfect apartment my parents were paying for, and the first thing I did was call my 300-km-away-perfect-boyfriend who was moving into his own apartment. I started classes - I was doing a double major in Dramatic Arts and Psychology - and I loved it. I dedicated myself to my schooling for six months before I finally decided to try my hand at the University's social life. This was when everything changed.

It started with an invitation from a boy in DRAM E-21, a class on improvisation, to a party. It was his birthday celebration, so I couldn't really refuse. We hit the vodka and then the streets, and he showed me the real nightlife I could never have explored in Ohio.

I tried to stick to my course, to balance study with living. My grades started to drop and I'd forget to call my boyfriend for days at a time. The days turned into weeks. I started getting headaches from sleep deprivation and became pessimistic during the day, waiting for my classes to end so I could pop a few buttons on my shirt and head into the city.

I flirted with a lot of women. I kissed a few. It didn't feel like cheating – there was no emotional attachment, no real sexual desire or passion. It was just excitement, adrenalin, the attention, the love of discovering I could wind them around my little finger until they fell in love. I became well known in certain social circles as 'mysterious', a word I quite liked. Women said I was seductive, handsome – I believe I was even described as perfect once or twice – but would never take a woman to bed, or go on a second date, which made me a curious fascination to a lot of people. Some guessed I was gay, others thought I was married or religious. The truth was, I was still in love. As much as I enjoyed the excitement that came with the seduction, I had no intention of ruining things with my boyfriend. And I knew if I went further, I would feel guilty.

I'm not a bad person. Some people might think that the moment I kissed someone else, man or women, I was guilty. But I didn't feel it, because I didn't love or desire anyone but him. Everything else was a game to me, a bit of fun to take my mind off my studies. But if there had been any moment where, for even a fleeting second, I desired another person and acted on it, I would have felt immeasurably guilty. And I would have gotten on a plane to New York and found my perfect boyfriend's little apartment and fallen to his feet in confession.

But he never found out about my late night antics. I didn't get a chance to tell him. I continuously forgot to answer his calls. I forget to text. I didn't have time to check my emails. I didn't really realize what I had done until I got home one Friday morning to seven messages on my answering machine.

"We're over."

I'll never forget the way he said those words. It didn't sound like him. I know a lot of people don't sound right over the phone, but it wasn't just that – I had never heard him sound so apathetic. He was always full of emotion, full of passion. If he had screamed at me, I would have known it were something I could fix, just a small rip in our relationship I could have patched-up with a couple of weeks and enough flowers, perhaps with even a quick trip to New York.

But there was no emotion. He had already been through the seven stages of grief and had come to accept it. To him, we had probably been over for weeks. All I could do was call and apologize. He listened in silence and then said he had to go – Rachel was cooking and he needed to help her with the pastry. We said goodbye and I knew I would probably never see him again.

I supposed his absolution helped me to skip the denial stage. I couldn't deny that we were finished, even to myself. I was, however, wracked with guilt. I spent weeks tossing sleeplessly in bed at night, throwing up in the bathroom, punishing myself for ignoring him and losing him.

Then I felt angry. I left drunken messages on his phone, accusing him of being too clingy. I'd leave more messages the following morning, apologizing. He never returned my calls.

Then came the depression and the loneliness. I stopped turning up to classes and devoted myself to the nightlife in an attempt to forget. I slept with men and women. I relied on my parent's money. I drank my life away. And then I met Richard.

Richard wasn't his real name, but I came to spend more time with him as Richard than with him as Michael. I met him first in an expensive boutique café, where I was nursing a hangover with a cup of cinnamon medium-drip. He came up to me saying he recognized me from somewhere, and then remembered – from a gay bar on Town Street, and then I remembered him too. He had been on the arm of a middle-aged man. I remembered being surprised and wondering why someone so gorgeous had settled for someone so plain.

Richard asked me to join him for coffee the following week, and we began to meet every Tuesday at ten at that little café on the corner of Dennis and Cole. It took me a while to talk myself into asking about his boyfriend.

"Boyfriend?" Richard had laughed. "No, he was a client. I work as an escort."

Needless to say, I was curious. I had always painted escorting as something only the desperate and unhappy did, but Richard was handsome, well dressed, charming and no doubt happy with his life. He wasn't shy about his work, although he said it wasn't something he usually talked about.

I became fascinated by the way he talked about his job. Sometimes there bad days, where he'd complain about the agency, but most days he would smile as he recounted a particularly enjoyable night. His favorites were when clients just wanted a handsome man on their arm for a party – _just _an escort – and he got to play the perfect boyfriend. Acting was one of the many loves Richard and I had in common.

Richard and I became fast friends. I didn't fall in love with him, despite his charm, and he didn't fall in love with me. We were just too similar, and I still loved my New York lover. Not to mention, he had no room in his life for relationships. Being an escort wasn't a job you could juggle with true, honest romance.

And then my parents called to say they had found out I had quit Harvard. It was a disaster. They were going to stop sending money if I didn't re-enroll or return home. I was devastated and needed a job.

Naturally, Richard had an obvious suggestion when I complained about it to him. He took me to his agency that night, where I was interviewed by a beautiful, middle-aged woman called Sandra. I had never been inside a brothel before. It was a lot nicer than I expected – all rich curtains, plush rugs and mahogany desks. The ground rules were explained. I was taught how payments and clients were handled, about safety procedures, and what to do in case of an emergency. I was told the only reason I was getting the job was because Richard had recommended me, that they weren't actually accepting new workers at the moment. I smiled and told her I was grateful.

"What did you say your name was again?" Sandra asked, looking me up and down through her thin-rimmed glasses.

"Blaine Anderson," Richard answered for me.

"Blaine," she said thoughtfully, and then smiled at me for the first time. "That would have been a good working name. But from now on, you'll work with the name Casper."

I was given a month to prove I could handle the work. I was told I needed to get a certain amount of regular clients in order to pass the test, but I wasn't told how many. During that month I would receive 30% of what my clients paid to see me, and if I survived the month, I would receive 50%. I would be allowed to keep any tips I was given.

This was how I became an escort, and this is a story about my life as a call boy.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: <p>

**Please take a moment to review!** It could make my day, or even my week, if it's a slow one. I read and value every single one! I love getting to know my readers, and any suggestions are incredibly appreciated. Please don't be shy c:.


	2. Chapter 2

"Casper?"

A small, bottle-blond rose from her seat at the restaurant table, tugging the hem of her little black dress down over her thighs, conscious of her modesty. Her cheeks were rosey and her make-up over-done. She couldn't hold my gaze for my more than a couple of seconds.

"You must be Alice," I said, smiling and stepping forward to offer my hand. She looked at our hands as we shook, no doubt conscious of her sweaty palms, but I kept my eyes on her face. She wasn't unattractive. With softer make-up and a haircut I might even have called her pretty. She pulled away quickly.

"Yeah," she said. "Alice Corman. Do you want to, um, sit down? I mean, should we?" She laughed nervously and motioned to the table, going a little pinker in the face. "I ordered wine-" she paused, "- Chardonnay. Do you drink?"

I smiled at her as we sat down. She was fussing with her dress again, but I managed to hold her gaze over the table. Her eyebrows were pinched a little and she was, perhaps unconsciously, biting her lower lip. "I love wine," I said, "although in all honesty, I don't know much about it. But my friends and I back in Ohio used to sit on the roof of the equestrian centre and drink Chardonnay on clear evenings."

She blinked then and released her lip from her teeth. "You're from Ohio?"

"I grew up there. It's a lovely place –no one gives it enough credit. Incredible people..." I trailed off, almost distracting myself. "Are you from Cambridge?"

She shook her head. "From New York." She paused again. "I've been to Ashland though, once. My aunt lives there. She, um, farms. Or something." Her face was burning now and she was staring down her hands, her fingers picking at the corner of the menu. I would have reached across the table and taken her hand in mine if she hadn't been so tucked into herself that it was too far to do gracefully.

"I love farms," I said. "I had a friend in Ohio, Andy, who lived on a farm. He played polo – he was the one who showed us how to get onto the equestrian centre's roof, actually. He and his little brother, Kyle..." They were all lies, but the more I talked, the more she seemed to relax and the more comfortable she seemed looking at me, so I continued. " Let me tell you about Kyle, he was incredible with horses. Taught me how to ride, actually! But played the most awful pranks on his brother."

She laughed at my story, which I had a lot of fun telling. I watched her carefully. Everything I did and said was calculated to make her as comfortable as possible. When the waiter came to take our orders, I asked her to order for me. It's a bit of a game I liked to play – I'm not a fussy eater, and I love surprises. I also like to think that the food people associate you with can tell you a little about how they perceive you. I haven't put this theory to practice enough to confirm it, but Alice surprised me immediately by ordering me a steak. I had expected her to go with something more complicated and difficult to pronounce – not something I knew I would actually really enjoy.

By the time the food arrived, Alice was telling her own stories. She was attending Harvard, studying Biology. She had three sisters, one an English major, one a graduated Fine Arts student currently working at an art museum in New York, and the other still in high school. Every time Alice mentioned New York I felt my heart twist, but I didn't let it show. She also had a toy poodle called Rex and guinea-pig called Cat, although she was allergic to cats and suffered from hay fever. Her father was a dentist and her mother a painter. She didn't say it out-right, but I could tell she didn't get along very well with her father. She was a Libra and a huge fan of Harry Potter.

It was amazing how quickly she opened up once she felt more relaxed. I had to excuse myself to call the Agency before we could discuss and compare our tastes in literature. I told them everything was going great, and that I'd call again in a couple of hours.

The food was nice and the wine was awful, but I drank it anyway. I quickly realized Alice didn't like wine either, commenting on her untouched glass. "You don't like Chardonnay, do you?" I teased.

She cringed and followed my gaze. "Actually, I've never been much of a fan of wine at all."

I softened my smile and put down my glass. "You know, I'm here to impress _you_, not the other way around."

She blushed and looked away again, and I cursed myself for making her feel uncomfortable. "I've never, um, done this before," she said. "I wasn't really sure what to expect."

I looked at her plate – she had nearly finished her pasta, but she had been picking at it for the last ten minutes, and I just had my salad left. "How about we skip dessert – I know a lovely little street vendor that does the most mazing crepes. It's not far from here."

Her face lit up a little. "Do you mean Elsies?"

"You know the place?"

"I love it."

I payed the bill – although I'm not supposed to. She argued me for it, saying she couldn't possibly let me. She even said it was unprofessional of me! That only made me more adamant. I don't like it when they remind me I'm getting paid for this. She was paying me more than enough tonight to cover it, anyway.

It was a beautiful, busy night in Cambridge. Alice seemed a little awkward again walking in her strappy black heels, and I wished, not for the first time, that she had worn sneakers and an oversized cardigan. Not that she didn't look lovely, but I'd never seen any woman so uncomfortable in a dress. We stopped to listen to some buskers, and Alice let me put an arm around her shoulders. The musicians were pretty good; they were playing some kind of folk music, and the female vocalist had an almost eerie, but beautiful, voice. I hadn't sung in a very long time, but I quickly shelved that thought.

As we left the small crowd, someone handed Alice a flier for a new nightclub, but she wrinkled her nose at it and handed it to me. "Not really my thing," she said.

"Mine neither," I lied, but I memorized the name and address before tossing it. It looked promising. Anything to get Richard to stop complaining about how bored of the city he was getting. I slipped my hand into Alice's. She smiled up at me and squeezed my hand gently. Her palms were dry and her smile genuine.

The crepes were as amazing as always, and I paid again. It's not the first time I've paid for a client's food. Sometimes I start to feel guilty that I'm being paid so much to do something I love. I love entertaining people. I love acting. I love sex. The less we're both reminded that this is my job, the better I feel about it.

The agreed upon four hours ended almost too quickly, and I accompanied her in a cab back to Harvard, although she said I didn't have to, she seemed pleased when I insisted.

It's not very often I get a job like this – strictly hands off, sexually speaking. I loved it. But it was nights like this that reminded me of what I was really missing. Alice thanked me, telling me what a lovely night she'd had, and said she'd call again. She was standing comfortably now, with no sign of the nervous habits she had displayed earlier.

"I'd like to take you to a play next week, if you're free. My cousin Colten is playing Hamlet. Would you be interested?" She looked a little uncertain, searching my face. "I'll call you – through the agency, of course."

I wished I could have given her my personal number, and told her to call that, that I didn't need her money. But it was still my first month, and I needed to prove to Sandra I was capable of collecting regular clients. I wasn't allowed to make any promises, but I kissed on the cheek and whispered "I love plays." When I pulled back, she was glowing.

I called the Agency in the taxi on my way home, to tell them that the night had gone well and that I was on my way home, safe and sound. It was Cassy who picked up the phone. I love Cassy. Cassy and Cas, they sometimes called us.

"Cas?" She sounded a little stressed. "Good night?"

"Yeah, the client was lovely," I replied, loosening my tie and staring out the window. "God, if only they were all like her, I could do this for the rest of my life."

Cassy laughed, "Hopefully you won't have to," she said. Ever since she and I had sung karaoke at a bar a couple of weeks ago, she had been trying to talk me into auditioning for things, to get me out of the agency. She said I had too much potential to be here. She had even emailed me a couple of jobs. Sandra would kill her if she knew.

"Could you do me a favour?" Cassy asked suddenly. I could hear here typing in the background. "If I send you an address, can you drop by and check on Richard? He's doing an outcall at a motel, the same hours as you, and he was supposed to be done half an hour ago, but he hasn't called or answered his phone. Normally I'd give him an hour, but I didn't like the sound of the guy."

"Did anyone go with him?"

"Gavin dropped him off around seven, but they both said everything was fine. I'm sure everything is, but I'd like to check."

"Richard probably just got too caught up in the moment," I assured her. "It wouldn't be the first time. But of course, I'll head round immediately. Where did you say the motel was?"

"Thanks love, you're a doll. I'll send you a text. You're in the Harvard area, right? It's not far from there."

The motel was called Value 9 and, according to a quick internet search on my phone, was an affordable pay-by-the-hour with an all you can eat buffet. I tried to call Richard after redirecting the cabbie, but got voicemail.

"This is the phone of Michael Moore. Please don't leave a message after the beep, because I really hate checking my voicemail."

"Richard, you really need to remember to call the Agency on time. This is the second time I've had to check on you, and I really do not want to walk in on you in red spandex going down on a forty year old woman – _again_."

Of course, it wasn't a woman this time, but I loved every opportunity to tease him. Not that I ever got much of a reaction – he joked more about the job than I did.

The motel was dingier than it looked in the photos, which I kind of expected considering its name. The E in the red Vacancies sign flickered as the cab pulled in. I paid the driver and checked Cassy's text. Room number 11. The client was new but had a clean record, and a background check said he owned a bar in Boston, and had a wife and a daughter. He had been recommended by a retiring independent escort in Boston. Good references were received. After reading this, I wasn't worried.

I told the young lady at the front desk that I was looking for a couple of friends, wanting to check they were still here before knocking on any doors. I described Richard in more than enough detail, hoping she would interrupt me before I would be expected to describe his client. Cassy hadn't sent me his picture.

"He has a freckle, just under his jaw-"

"Yes," she said finally, her tone clipped and bored. Her lips were pursed and she was frowning. "They've been here. The older man left a couple of hours ago. Your-" she paused here, looking at me distastefully, "- _friend _should be checking out in about twenty minutes."

"Thank you," I said, smiling despite her awful customer service.

The door for number 11 was ajar, but I approached it slowly and hovered just outside, listening. It was dead silent, except for the soft music coming from the room 09. I sighed and pushed the door open.

"If you've fallen asleep-" I started loudly, then stopped dead.

Richard was lying cuffed to the bed, wide-eyed and gagged. He was in spandex underwear again, with little silver hooks attached to a set of very classy suspenders. A whip lay off to the side. Otherwise, he looked fine. I closed my gaping mouth, and then giggled, and he glared at me and tried to say something through the gag.

"Sorry," I said. "Really." I attempted a serious expression as I closed the door. I shouldn't be laughing. It could be worse than it looks. Were drugs involved? Theft? Why would a client walk out half way through whatever-it-was-they-were-doing, leaving Richard tied up? I removed the gag before I looked for the keys to the cuffs.

"His wife was pregnant," Richard spat as soon as he could. I tossed the gag onto the bed and cast my eyes about for a key. "And not _just_ pregnant, but about to go into _labour_. Try the bedside table, by the way. So, when he gets a call from his wife, he just ups and leaves. Takes the time to throw his clothes back on, but couldn't spare a _minute _to untie me. God, I don't know how long he has the room for, I could have been here for hours more, but imagine the look on that girl's face – did you see her, the one at the desk? As homophobic as they get. Anyway, I've been entertaining myself by imagining her reaction if she'd come upstairs to find me. It's almost a shame you're here, actually."

"And what if he'd booked the room for the entire night?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.

Richard rolled his eyes. "No one books a pay-by-the-hour for the night."

I found the key on the floor between the table and the bed, but couldn't stop myself from grinning as I uncuffed him. "I really wish I'd thought to take a picture," I said as he nursed his wrists.

He stuck his tongue out at me, which looked ridiculous on his very adult face. "How was _your _night, anyway?"

"She was lovely," I said honestly. "Really sweet, shy, lovely eyes."

"Lucky bugger," and then added, "Are you sure you're gay?"

We flirted as we checked out, much to the receptionists horror, and told her we'd be back. Richard put his arm around my waist as we left. We glanced back as the doors closed behind us, just in time to see her livid face.

"That was almost worth the wait," he said, letting go of me. "So, tonight's girl will be, what, your fifth regular client? And another new one, at that. Sandra must love you."

"It's so hard to tell with her," I admitted. Sandra was very difficult to read. "And I don't know how regular this one will be. She was _very_ shy." After dropping Alice off, I had been so sure of seeing her again, but I was less certain now thinking back on her awkwardness.

Although we were both exhausted, Richard and I decided to go back to mine for a couple of drinks – I still had half a box of beer from the last time Richard visited. We called the Agency first - Cassy yelled at Richard for a good minute before she let him explain - and then called a cab.

"We should go see Hamlet at Brattle on Wednesday," Richard said on the way home.

"Hamlet? I might be going with Alice," I said, almost feeling guilty. Richard loved theatre.

"Alice? Today's date? _Please _tell me you didn't make out-of-work plans with a client."

"Of course not! It's not set in stone, so if she doesn't hire me again, we can go."

"Let's go anyway, you can go twice."

"I don't want to go twice," I said.

"_Please_?" he wined. "Don't make me hire you."

"Maybe," I said. "Ask me how I feel on the night."

"But we have to book in advance!"

"Okay, okay." We both knew I'd cave-in eventually – I always do - so I might as well do it sooner rather than later. "Give me a date for sometime next week, and I'll make sure not to book anything in."

He grinned and punched my shoulder. "That's my boy."

Richard ordered pizza as soon as we got in the door; he hadn't eaten. I almost turned on the stereo, out of habit. These days I always play music when I'm home and awake. I can't help it. I feel empty if I don't listen to at least one album a day.

"Are you busy tomorrow?" Richard asked, following me into the kitchen. I ducked into the fridge to retrieve the drinks. "It's been a while since we last went to one of our cafes," he added.

"I'm free before nine," I said, tossing him a beer and cracking open my own. "Then I'm meeting Lawrence."

"Ah, the geeky lawyer."

"Shut up, I like him."

My apartment was small, but clean and tidy and in a nice area. If I passed this month at the Agency, I planned on moving to a bigger place. That way I could have a spare room for incalls. I would definitely be earning enough money, even without Sandra's massive cut.

I groaned, realizing how much my muscles ached, and stretched out on the couch, leaving the lazy-boy for Richard. I dug around in the cushions for the remote and turned on the TV. We had the news, the news, the news, and a cheesy rom-com to pick from. My phone started ringing just as Richard sat down. "Pick a movie," I said, reluctantly getting up again. It was probably Sandy or Cassy.

"Blaine?"

I swear, my heart stopped for a second. I'm not even using that as a cliché. Okay, so it's unlikely that it actually literally stopped, but it sure felt like it. I don't know how to explain it. I couldn't move, I couldn't breath. For a moment I felt as though I didn't even exist. And then I heard Richard open a Blueray case, and I snapped out of it, and I could hear my pulse again in the silence of the reciever. I quietly stepped into the kitchen, out of sight, and leaned against the counter. I took a deep breath before replying.

"Kurt," I said. "Hi."

Kurt was silent for a moment as well, and I could picture him on the other end looking just as panic stricken as I felt. "How are you?" he asked eventually. It sounded forced. Of course it sounded forced.

"I'm... I'm good. Yeah."

"I heard you dropped out of Harvard."

"Oh. Yeah, I did."

Kurt was silent again. I wanted to fill the silence, but I couldn't. I didn't know what to say.

"Are you okay? I mean..." He trailed off. "You're on your own, with no money. Do you have a job?"

"Yeah," I said. I looked at my reflection in the kitchen window. I looked ill. "Yeah, everything's good. I have a job. Nothing to brag about, but I'm living. I have good friends here."

"That's good," said Kurt, but he didn't sound relieved. "I guess, when I heard, I worried a little. Rachel wanted – um – well, _we _wanted you to know we have a spare room here in New York. If you want it."

My heart was racing now. I hadn't heard from Kurt in months, and it must have been, what, nearly a year since I'd seen him on a regular basis? I wrung my fingers. I wish he had said this over text or email, giving me more time to think and respond.

"I, wow," I said stupidly. "Um, thanks." I still didn't know what to say. "Really, Kurt, that means a lot." I almost felt like crying. Partially out of frustration, partially because Kurt just had that affect on me sometimes. I still loved him, but I knew I couldn't go back to him. Not yet. Not before I fully understood who I was, and what I wanted. That's why I went to Harvard in the first place, instead of applying for Nyada. And now I still wasn't sure what I wanted. I could hear Richard watching the pre-feature advertisements. I was happy here, and I couldn't guarantee that happiness in New York. One thing was for sure – even if I went to New York, Kurt and I wouldn't jump straight back into a happy relationship. It didn't work like that. Not with us. And how could I explain my life without him? But god, did I miss him.

"So, what do you think?" I could hear the hope he was trying to hide in his voice.

"I don't know," I said honestly. I realized I was unconsciously scratching at the skin around my thumb, and stopped. "Kurt, I think I need more time to think about it. Would that be okay? It's just that I have work here, and friends – I've really settled in, you know? And I'm scared, because we haven't seen each other in so long, and I don't even know -"

"That's fine, Blaine, really."

"Really?" I repeated weakly.

"Take as long as you need. Rachel says hello and that she misses your ugly bowties, by the way."

"Tell her – tell her I say hello as well." I could feel the tears stinging at my eyes, and I hoped he couldn't hear them in my voice.

I pressed my hands to the counter after we hung up, trying to absorb the cold. I gave myself ten seconds to compose myself, but once I reached ten I decided to give myself another twenty before pocketing the phone, wiping my eyes and heading back into the lounge.

"Cassy?" Richard asked.

"My ex." I tried to say it casually, but it came out a little monotone.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Want to talk about it?"

I shook my head. "What're we watching?" There was an add playing for some action movie I hadn't seen.

"Silence of the Lambs."

"Okay," I said. "Good."

He was looking at me like I was insane, but returned his attention to the movie once I sat down. Richard was good like that. He knew when to pry, and when to let me be. I struggled to pay attention to the movie, and once it was over and Richard was gone, and the left-over pizza was wrapped and refrigerated, I went straight to bed. I didn't sleep.


End file.
